Is this what my life has become? I silently asked myself, staring at my reflection in this goddamn cage. My head swam with drugs, my pussy sore from being repeatedly fucked and filled. The warmth deep in my abdomen, though not unpleasant, served as a stark reminder of my helplessness. I was a victim, weak and unable to fight back.
Mariella's moans grew louder as I glanced down. My cage strung high above her in the ceiling gave me an exclusive view, as she was moaning like a bitch in heat as numbers two, four, and nine ravaged her. I could smell them on her—she was thoroughly used, and seemingly happy. I, however, was not. This was not the life I wanted. As this realization slowly dawned, a spark ignited within me—small at first, but growing.
My mind, though drugged, still functioned on some level. Deep down, I knew this wasn't the healing I needed, but living amongst lustful creatures after experiencing trauma, this was the result: healing through sex.
Ironically, in the past, a long, long time ago, Adam and Charles eventually helped me recover through their intimacy, but this followed a long and brutal torture session by Damon's evil twin, Damien. It wasn't the same; that was healing, that was help, but it wasn't meant to reduce me to a sex doll. I needed caresses, love, intimacy, and affection—none of which I received.
Mariella, however, received them all, though even she didn't need them. She skillfully positioned herself as a victim, taking what she wanted from the men and enjoying her life. I, on the other hand, was not enjoying myself; even though a part of me recognized the potential for healing, I felt so profoundly broken that I knew my recovery would be neither fast nor easy.
I somehow knew I'd been in this state for weeks, maybe months, and for some reason, I wasn't a priority. Ironically, if they had gotten me online, so to speak, I could have performed miracles through the hive mind. Instead, this started as therapy for the females, morphed into an orgy, and then transformed again into Mariella's worship party.
I was forced to watch, listen, and hear as each Salvatore, one by one, honestly pledged themselves to her, not even glancing at me. I was a pretender, and my ability as a living lie detector confirmed the sincerity of their oaths.
This was one of the cruelest things ever done to me, regardless of the intent. Sometimes Damon, as a healer, acts without thinking, healing even if it means breaking something in the process—you can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs, right?
Damon had not learned his lesson that the road to hell was truly paved with good intentions and bad decisions, and I was sure he never would.
Hours later, Damon, number one, entered the room. He had showered after his own encounter with Mariella, who was also freshly washed and lying on the bed. The cloying smell of sex and pussy juice made me wrinkle my nose.
The word "cunt," repeated in my mind, mocked me as I saw it reflected in the mirror, along with the oppressive collar around my neck and my new name. I desperately needed to act, but the drugs had rendered me barely conscious and incapable of functioning. Without my rage, I was nothing. I passed out again, the tiny spark insufficient, for now, but a start nonetheless.
Movement jolted me awake. It was hours later, maybe days, and the smell of sex reeked heavily in the air, making me almost nauseous. Damon was lowering my cage.
My eyes barely opened as I heard Mariella ask, "Oh, are you going to use the cunt? She looks a little tired."
Damon's cold, impersonal voice answered, "I'll use her, alright. She's mine to use, and you'll just have to watch. This snatch is something else."
He looked at me with his ice-blue eyes, cold as the Arctic. There was no love in his gaze, not even hot lust, but this cold possession. Mariella feigned a pout but smirked as Damon lowered and opened my cage, grabbing my limp body and unhooking the spreader bar from my ankles.
"I hope you've learned to keep those legs spread, cunt," he said coldly. "Daddy's going to be upset, and you know what Daddy does when he's upset. You get more drugs for being a bad cunt."
His voice was angry, stern. Too drugged to speak, I was simply used—a body without will, a fleshlight, to put it crudely.
He lifted my limp body and placed me on the bed next to Mariella, then put on some music. To my surprise, the songs were from my playlist, but I was too doped to understand what was happening. A spark ignited within me, like a match struggling to light, flickering before darkness overwhelmed me once more.
Meanwhile, Damon's demeanor was stern as he released Mimi from her cage. He wasn't angry with Mimi, but the unloading of his programming had unleashed a torrent of horrific memories. He needed to purge them, and for this, he needed Mariella's grounding support.
These memories were so profoundly disturbing that he'd never shown them to anyone else—especially Wulfe, who would erupt into a killing spree. Only Mariella could prevent this. He hadn't told Mariella about the nature of these memories, but she would have to use her "white power" to help him neutralize them.
I was barely conscious as I felt Damon fucking me, his grunts punctuating his hard, fast thrusts. My pussy, already sore, was further ravaged. Mariella was speaking, and I sensed a terrible pressure, a malevolent force trying to invade my mind, like a self-destruction switch.
This inexplicable activation left me weak and helpless, reinforcing my feelings of victimhood and worthlessness. I tried to fight it, but it was simply too much—overwhelmingly so. In that hellish moment, I felt not like the universe's strongest creature, but a lost, scared, and exhausted being, too far gone to be saved.
My programming was a mess; safety triggers had been embedded in my mind, and when Damon accidentally tripped them, new layers flooded in. He grunted with effort as he fought them off, shielding my mind and maintaining his lust while preventing Mariella from seeing the extent of the programming's damage.
He was trying, truly, but prioritizing Mariella, he didn't use his greatest weapon—our love—relying instead on raw power and telepathy. He was strong, but this multi-layered programming couldn't be snapped away. Without my rage, I had no defense; it was all up to him.
I woke up once more to Mariella saying, "Oh morning, cunt. You've had quite a breeding, but you're still not very obedient. Daddy's not happy, so he's going to give you more drugs."
My body felt heavy, drugged, my pussy sore, my breasts aching, and my skin prickling as it was bitten all over. I glared at her unbelievably. She called me "cunt" too. I squirmed, repositioned myself, and tried to purge the drugs from my mind. The oppressive feeling lessened, but my mind felt bruised, tired, and used, and the spark of anger reignited. I didn't want this, not at all.
Since our kidnapping—I had no idea how long ago—we'd escaped that awful place, but my rage, my supernatural power, was gone. I felt like an empty shell, something floating in the air. Then this happened: After a long and arduous physical recovery, we finally left the medbay and returned home, months later.
Just as I thought my recovery was beginning, the pack males seemed to lose control, indulging in sex play and fantasy, losing all sense of time. I had no idea how long this had been going on, how long I'd worn this collar, been called "cunt," drugged, and repeatedly violated. I had no idea what my life would be.
I tried to speak, but Mariella hushed me, sneering, "Don't bother, cunt. Daddy's almost back, and he's gonna give you a lesson. He's brought friends who need some 'quality pussy.' Your tight little snatch is gonna get some hot cock, and you'll be doped up to the gills, legs spread wide. And your tits—oh yeah, lactation. I'm making milk too, but at least I have the decency to offer my bounty and enjoy my time with Daddy. I'm not a dried-up cunt like you."
Footsteps sounded, my vision blurred, and Damon walked in. He barely glanced at me before opening a cabinet.
He spoke softly, "You know, I could have used a wife, but no, you just had to be a real cunt. So here we are. You are, and always have been, a cunt, and I don't waste anything, not even cunts. Your pussy is perfect; thus, you are my toy, my cunt. Get used to it. No one—and I mean no one—will save you, love you. This is your life now."
His words ignited something within me. A spark grew, a slow, clumsy awakening, but it was something I desperately needed.
Damon took several vials and drew up drugs, continuing, "You know, I don't have to love you to use you. I can, and I have, most of the time. Sure, we had our 'love,' but let's be honest, cunt. After I met Mariella, I knew what real love was. Ours wasn't real; it was a crush, a fleeting thing. I was caught, and you were…well, you were you. It was obvious you had a crush on me, too."
I swallowed, and the spark intensified. Something inside broke, and it hurt—the first time in months. I felt something, anything, other than numbness. I was no longer nothing; I felt pain, and I embraced it, for it made me feel alive. This pain sparked something deeper, a slow but steady growth of power, an inferno igniting within my core. It was weak, a shadow of its former strength, but it was there: my rage.
Damon planned to remove the memories from Mimi's mind once her rage surfaced, but this required coaxing. He had to be cruel, to tell the truth—or at least a partial truth—a plan conceived by Mariella. Their goal was to shatter Mimi's strength, break her heart, and erase everything later.
Mariella, though unsure of success, was skilled at manipulation and convinced Damon that there would be no repercussions. She craved to hear Damon deny his love for Mimi and the other Salvatores, wanting their complete allegiance. She didn't consider the implications of her actions, still broken and needing healing herself, a fact the Salvatores overlooked.
They readily participated in her manipulation, denying Mimi's love and everything important to her, naively believing their telepathy would magically erase it all. They ignored Wulfe's teachings about Mimi's memory and the dangers of breaking her heart, prioritizing the awakening of her rage.
Their reasoning? This would resolve everything, granting them freedom for a sex vacation with Mariella in the Azores—Mariella's happiness being paramount. She got what she wanted, regardless of the cost, a bitter lesson that would haunt them for years.
Once again, they broke something irreplaceable, a mistake that would take years to heal, leaving them with permanent losses. No regrets would mend what was broken, and all the reasons they would come up with were just excuses, until they would acknowledge the bitter truth. They had once more put Mariella first and forgotten Mimi.
Damon prepared his syringe and approached me. Still drugged, I felt his relentless grip on my jaw as he forced the syringe into my mouth, depressed the plunger, and manipulated the drug into my stomach. His anger was evident as he left to shower.
The drugs hit me, bringing a wave of confusion, blurry vision, and weakness. I could still taste the bitter tang of them in my mouth. There was no hint of passionfruit, as Damon used now pure drugs and did not bother with dental substances. I felt like a sex doll, hating this stupid bed, the insipid peach and muted yellow colors—everything felt dull and lifeless.
The cotton sheets felt cheap and rough against my skin; I craved the silk or satin I was accustomed to. This room was clearly designed for Mariella; the entire setup felt tailored to her. My hatred for this situation was building, a precursor to rage, and a sickening disgust compounded my feelings.
This treatment was repulsive; I was no one's pawn, and I had saved them all. I had gone to extremes, even to the point of death, multiple times, to achieve our freedom, not Mariella's. I was not the cunt, not a sex doll for them to use. A spark of defiance ignited within me.
Damon, showering, was still consumed by guilt and manipulated by Mariella, along with the other Salvatores. He sensed the approaching end, a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness. Yet, his arrogance and cockiness, unlike his initial strategic thinking, had allowed Mariella's worship and fantasies to dictate their reality, ensuring every Salvatore was under her control.
Lying on the bed, drugged and weak, I listened as another Salvatore shattered my heart. Number four. He confessed his love to Mariella, promising to tell her stories and win her attention, a task she excelled at. My number two, meanwhile, held her in his arms, kissing her; his love was undeniable, and my loss complete. I had lost them all.
A spark ignited, growing unnoticed amidst the others' worship of Mariella. When Damon emerged from the shower, his gaze treating me as a mere inconvenience, my rage erupted. It empowered me, burning away the drug's effects.
Number two exclaimed, "Oh wow, she's awake! Oh fuck, this is too fast. We can't get her down! Damn, I slipped up. I can't take it out!"
The other Salvatores felt it too—Mimi's rage, expelling them from her mind. Betrayed and furious, Mariella's plan now seemed impractical.
Rising and rolling off the bed, Mimi's voice was sharp and chilling. "I have a name. It is not 'THE CUNT!'"
She ripped off her enchanted collar—an impossible feat—her eyes blazing as she approached Damon. "Keep Mariella. You can all have her. I'm done. You are nothing to me, as I am nothing to you. It's over."
She kicked number one in the groin; he doubled over. She had not spared her strength.
As he rose, his own rage flared. "Fine," he said, a chilling finality in his voice, "let's go to the gym and settle this, once and for all."
Mariella, however, smiled. She had her Salvatores; Mimi's tantrum was merely temporary, and, as she wasn't the "lust queen," Mariella felt Mimi had no claim to her men.